


just a love to endure

by plastiswafers



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastiswafers/pseuds/plastiswafers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eduardo finds his catharsis through unsent text messages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just a love to endure

When Eduardo was a teenager, his therapist told him to keep a journal where he could write all of the things he wished he could say to people. At first it mostly contained _Dear Dad, I really think you should be the one to apologize this time, you know_ but eventually Eduardo branched out, branched out to the point where he felt comfortable enough to bring his journal to school with him, but then _Dear Melissa Klein, I can't stop looking at your tits in calculus and I think it's hurting my grade so if you could please maybe stop wearing such low-cut shirts my GPA would really appreciate it_ circulated its way around the school and that was the end of his catharsis, not to mention the appeal of Melissa Klein's breasts.

Eduardo doesn't have a therapist anymore but he's considering just maybe finding someone to talk to because he's having more trouble moving on than he's really okay with. It doesn't help that Mark's stupid face is plastered on every major news outlet that Eduardo can get his hands on, and before Eduardo knows it, his phone is out and he's tapping out the words _you ugly fuck can you stop with the publicity whoring now no one needs to see you that much_ before he remembers that the reason why he hates that face so much is the exact same reason he can't send that text. He saves it in his drafts and pockets his phone, turning the page of the newspaper with a little more force than usual.

If you asked him, Eduardo would say it's nothing more than a bad habit, and while it is that, he can't deny that he feels a little more relaxed every time he blasts out an insult to his untouchable Mark, just like he used to feel when he was sixteen. And, well, fuck— _i'm regressing into a fucking teenager because of you, you fucking douche bag_ —another addition to his digital text message diary.

His girlfriend wonders why he won't just delete the damn number already, it's not like he's ever going to call Mark Zuckerberg again. Eduardo just shrugs, because he can't quite articulate why he won't: maybe he just likes that one day he could send all of them, all of them at once in a spew of bottled up vitriol. Deeper down, he knows that he's just not ready to completely erase Mark from his life, not when he's evolved into such a useful strawman for when everything in Eduardo's life goes wrong ( _my dishwasher broke today and my entire kitchen flooded and i hate you_ ) and besides, Eduardo's always been a bit of a packrat.

Before long the process changes. He starts leaving things out, like _happy birthday, asshole_ morphs into _happy birthday_ , which is still not the same as the _FELIZ ANIVERSÁRIO!!!!!!!!!! :) :) :) :) :) :)_ he would have sent not so long ago but he thinks that the lack of ad hominem insults is still probably an improvement.

It becomes less of a laundry list of all of Mark's faults ( _1\. you fucked me over and ruined my life 2. you have no social skills 3. you dress badly 4. you don't know how to style your own damn hair_ ) and more of a daily, sometimes hourly update on Eduardo's life ( _i bought some new jeans and i'm not really sure how i feel about them yet_ ; _i got indian food today for the first time ever oh my god how have i never had this before_ ; _guh how the fcuk,did i even getthis wayy_ ; _remembering why i don't usually drink_ ).

Slowly they start to get even more personal and one day Eduardo writes _i haven't talked to my dad in over two months and it feels fucking good_. He stares down at his phone for a moment, unsure whether or not he's willing to share that information with Mark. Then he remembers that he's _not_ sharing that information, it's his goddamn phone, which as far as he know hasn't become sentient any time recently, and that these are text messages he will _never send_. He saves it almost defiantly, forcing himself not to wonder just who he's supposed to be defying.

And once again he branches out, only this time it's more like branching _in_ , because for the first time Eduardo addresses Mark directly with something other than anger coloring his tone: _walked by that old coffee shop we liked to go to when i was visiting boston and thought about good times_. It's hard to stay angry when he has no real contact with Mark and Eduardo's started using his name as a surrogate confidante; he's surprised to realize that the memories that once made him burn with betrayal and shame now just summon a dull ache and disdain for his own stunning naïveté.

He's been lying on his couch, watching television with the slightly glazed expression of someone not quite comprehending what he's watching. He pulls his phone over from the coffee table almost by second nature and: _remembering friday night movie time. so many excellent b-films permanently burned into my retinas_. But he's been texting his assistant all afternoon and muscle memory will be the death of him, because he decisively hits "send" before staring in dumb horror as the idiotic message floats off into cyberspace and out of his hands entirely.

He throws his phone down on the couch, the traitor, though it's his own fingers that brought his own downfall. _He's probably changed his number by now,_ Eduardo thinks feverishly, ignoring the pang of disappointment that that thought brings. _Or he's got some drone who'll filter this out for him and he'll never see it._ He calms slightly, rubbing his temples in agitation.

Then his phone buzzes with a sharp jolt and Eduardo is staring at it with wide eyes. The screen gleams with the words "Zuckerberg, Mark" and one of those cutesy little envelopes and Eduardo breathes out "fucking _hell_ " before he can stop himself. He presses the button.

_Excuse me?_

His mind tells him that he should be annoyed or at the very least embarrassed but instead Eduardo giggles with quiet, nervous hysteria, because there are words in front of him, words from Mark Zuckerberg, who has become the most nonentity entity in his life since his father.

Numbly Eduardo realizes that he has to respond or he'll look like a douche and lose any grounds for righteous anger that he might have still wanted to retain. But he doesn't exactly know what to say— _oops, sorry, didn't mean for you to see that. i've just been using your name as a sounding board for my emotional issues since i last saw you, don't mind me_ hardly has the non-stalkerish vibe he's going for. Instead he settles on: _haha wow sorry man that was an accident._ It seems benign enough.

He receives an answer almost immediately.

_Oh. I thought it was meant for me, considering that Friday night movies WERE our tradition at Harvard. Clearly you've revived the practice with someone else._

Eduardo can practically see the sarcasm seeping off the screen and his cheeks burn because he knows that he's brought it upon himself, because really, he should have just gone out and gotten a damn therapist to begin with. He fires back _forget about it. please._ and he collapses back into the sofa, feeling suddenly mentally exhausted.

His phone buzzes again and Eduardo assumes that it's just another smarmy text, but then it keeps buzzing and it slowly dawns on him that this is a _telephone call_ and yes, "Zuckerberg, Mark" is flashing on the screen. Eduardo lets it sit there for a moment, flashing and buzzing much more menacingly than a phone has any right to be, and he doesn't even realize that he's been holding his breath until his phone stops making noise and he lets out one long, slow exhale.

Then it begins to ring again. Mark's a persistent fuck, Eduardo should have known that, and then his hands and mouth move of his own volition and he's picking up the phone and saying, "Hello?" in this pathetic, small voice.

Silence on the other line for a moment. Then: "You texted me." Matter-of-fact with a slight undertone of inquisitiveness; Mark wants to know what's going on but isn't ready to ask, which is fine by Eduardo, because he's not ready to answer.

Eduardo sighs deeply. "I know. It was an accident and I just—I, please, can we not do this?"

"Not do what?" Mark's being obtuse now and Eduardo's annoyed, he can't help it. "You initiated contact with me. You still have my cell phone number and the presence of mind to text me about something that we shared in common. I assumed there was a reason and I'd like to know what it is."

"There isn't a reason." Eduardo stops, reconsiders. "I mean, there—there is, I just don't know what it is. And I'm not sure if I really want to do this right now. _Please._ " His face is bright red and Eduardo is glad for the relative safety of the phone and the fact that he doesn't have to see Mark's face right now, just dissect and analyze and absorb the sound of his voice.

But now there's silence on the other end and Eduardo's suddenly afraid that Mark's hung up, even though he shouldn't be afraid of that, he should be _glad_ of that. And then: "I'm in New York right now." A beat, though Eduardo's heart stops. "I'll—I'll have someone send you a time and place. For tomorrow. Don't be late." He hangs up. Eduardo breathes, and looks down at his hands, and shakes.

  
It's a kitschy little cafe and the type of place that Mark would never pick for himself but exactly the type of place that a young, attractive female hired hand would pick on his behalf. Eduardo walks in and shrugs off his coat, prepared to grab a table for himself and wait for Mark to arrive. He turns to his left and his eyes beeline on a curly head of hair in the back corner and for a moment, all he can do is stand there and contemplate turning around and walking far, far away.

He doesn't, because he's a sucker, though he'd like to believe that it's because he's a good person capable of forgiveness. He takes a deep breath and slips into the chair on the other side of the table and lets himself look at the man sitting across from him.

Mark is just as badly dressed but he's not so babyfaced anymore. He's gained something that Eduardo wants to call _poise_ , something that Eduardo's found he's lost quite a bit of.. His gaze is calm and unflinching, just like always, but it's not backed up with arrogance anymore but the confidence of someone who's successful and knows it.

Eduardo can't help but stare. He notices that Mark's fingers are clenched a little bit _too_ tightly around his coffee cup and Eduardo relaxes, because that means Mark's every bit as nervous as he is (and he won't go into the fact that this means he's still more than capable of reading every aspect of Mark's body language -- supposedly he's blocked that out by now, along with other useless information, like the functions of the endoplasmic reticulum or his schedule of classes from eighth grade.)

The server bustles up and breaks the silence with a casual, "What can I get for you today?" Eduardo orders an iced tea and winces at how hoarse his voice sounds, like he's lost the ability to form words anymore.

Mark takes a sip of his drink and continues to look at Eduardo over the rim, his gaze inscrutable. "You look about the same," he says abruptly. "Maybe a little bit skinnier, I don't know, I didn't get a good enough look at you when you were standing."

Eduardo shakes his head and runs a hand absently through his hair. "You look about the same, too." He's not swallowing his bile yet, that's probably a good sign.

Mark is tracing a finger on the table in invisible patterns. Eduardo's eyes are following it almost involuntarily until the waitress comes back with his drink and he's drawn out of his reverie to thank her and squeeze a good chunk of lemon into his drink. "I'm not exactly surprised," Mark is saying, and he's babbling, quite clearly babbling. "I hardly expected you to go out and get like, a nose piercing or a face tattoo or something, but—"

"Mark." Eduardo leans forward unconsciously. "Mark, I know that there's no way you've gained a taste for small talk, so why don't you just tell me what we're doing here?"

Mark looks up and his hands freeze and retreat back to the safety of his lap. "You texted me," he says quietly, but intently, like he's trying to work out a puzzle.

"It was an _accident,_ " Eduardo bites out. "I apologized and I told you to forget about it. I wasn't—I wasn't trying to—it was an _accident_."

He takes a sip of his drink and winces, because he forgot to add sugar so his tea is nothing but the unholy combination of bitter and sour. He doesn't know why he can't just bite the bullet and tell Mark, tell him just how much fucking time he's spent constructing his own fantasy replacement for the best friend he lost, but something about the actual, physical presence of Mark halts his tongue and brings out all of his most unflattering attributes.

Mark's standing up and Eduardo wants to throw his fist through the wall. "Apologies." His tone is cold and Eduardo knows that Mark is shutting down, that Mark has initiated social interaction for the first time and Eduardo is blowing him off. "I suggest you delete my phone number so this doesn't happen again."

He's walking away. Eduardo knows that he should be jumping out of his chair and sprinting after him but instead he's staring straight ahead and trembling. And then, a thought. He pulls out his cell phone and taps something out, which is quite a feat as far as Eduardo's concerned, considering how violently his hands are shaking. He looks at the screen for a moment, trying to think about potential repercussions but thinking about Mark's stupid hair and his stupid face instead. He hits send and watches Mark's progress like a hawk.

Mark's at the door when he pauses and looks down at the pocket of his hoodie. He pulls his phone out, and Eduardo can tell even from his vantage point that Mark's annoyed at the prospect of answering whatever underling is inevitably trying to contact him. Then Mark's shoulders tense up and his free hand clenches into a fist as he reads Eduardo's words, and then Eduardo's eyes are closed, because he can't bear to watch, not this part.

_i missed you, you stupid fuck, i missed you and i texted you because i fucking miss you. so please come back and sit back down because i don't know how to say anything to you anymore_

Eduardo hears footsteps but he doesn't want to open his eyes, because it could just as easily be some other patron walking to his table. "Wardo." He opens an eye incrementally and Mark is standing there, fumbling awkwardly with the phone in his hand and looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and hope.

"Wardo." Mark's voice is breathy and Eduardo thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, the voice of somebody who's willing to call him by his old nickname again. "I...can I assume that this wasn't sent by accident?"

Eduardo doesn't respond, just grabs Mark's arm and squeezes ever so lightly. The gesture feels unfamiliar but Mark's quietly happy facial expression doesn't. Mark sinks slowly back into his chair and takes a sip of his quickly cooling coffee. Underneath the table, Eduardo surreptitiously clicks to the "drafts" section of his phone, and hits erase, and smiles.


End file.
